


A Fleeting Feeling

by ActualHurry



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, between A/P not Zag, you ever YEARN brother?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:02:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26679415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActualHurry/pseuds/ActualHurry
Summary: Some things are the same, whether you're mortal or immortal. And sometimes, all one wants is a brief escape.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (background), Zagreus/Patroclus (Hades Video Game)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 176





	A Fleeting Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> Zagreus has a very unique and person-based take on love/affection, that seems to shift according to who he's with. Zag -> Achilles is pretty much, well, you know. And Zag (thinking about Achilles) -> Patroclus was the next jump in logic. And...so...handjobs?
> 
> Anyway, I just REALLY LOVE all the conversations in the game about how mortals feel so strongly and so briefly and the difference between them and gods and ugh, whatever, take this thing.

Elysium is a paradise suspended. Zagreus doesn’t know whether he likes the sweet air of this pseudo-heaven more or less than the scalding heat of Asphodel, or the dark wet of Tartarus. It takes some getting used to, regardless; his embered feet bleed fire onto the soft ground, and like new, fresh blades of grass sprout, as if even the earth here is unwilling to ever see change.

Patroclus too, is much the same. Perhaps that’s why he believes so strongly that he belongs here — he shares so much with Elysium, so much and nothing at all. He does not fight, but the land does not fight, either. He has little will for much, but most of the determination in this land belongs to the souls scrapping eternally. He hardly _looks_ at Zagreus. 

Zagreus...wants Patroclus to look at him. That isn’t strange, he thinks, to want for fonder attention in a place that, once aware of him, usually attempts to stab him in the face.

In fact, he’s panting, having just sprinted in circles away from some rampant number of Chariots, when he finds the ever-familiar room: and within it, Patroclus. Always waiting. Always still. 

Zagreus’ mind wanders, always. He hefts a bottle of nectar.

“Patroclus,” he says, approaching. “Will you tell me about mortals?” It’s a question similar to those he’s asked Achilles plenty of times. Another perspective can’t hurt.

The distant reflection of the past that usually coats Patroclus’ gaze melts to awareness. He takes the nectar, barely sparing Zagreus himself a glance.

“Aren’t you trying to climb above?” Patroclus asks him, his voice a low and quiet ache between the ribs. “Ask a mortal up there, why don’t you? They would know better than I, now.” 

“I am trying, yes.” Zagreus settles down onto the dewy ground. Butterflies fill the space above them, flitting, dancing. “But I haven’t gotten there quite yet. Between you and I, it’s a bit of a challenge to cut through the Underworld’s population on my own.”

“Forcing you to break a sweat, are they? I would expect nothing less of the greatest warriors who’ve ever lived.”

Zagreus watches him open the bottle. “You don’t sound happy for them.”

“Why should I be? Why should I be happy for anyone here?” Patroclus huffs a ragged breath, then seems to decide that it’s not worth it. He takes a long draft of the nectar, then looks down at the remaining liquid in the bottle. After what appears to be an internal battle, Patroclus’ shoulders fall, and he extends the nectar to Zagreus.

With a raised brow — but no smart words, he knows better — Zagreus takes it. “To share?” he prompts, to be certain.

“Little else I can do in thanks,” Patroclus murmurs. “Does it look as if I have anything else to give but what I hand to you on your visits? No…that will have to do, for now.” 

Not one to turn down a gift, Zagreus takes a sip himself, thrilled a bit by Patroclus’ care. He can’t deny that it delights him for a moment, reckless it may be. He isn’t a complex sort, really.

Then, unbidden, Patroclus asks, “What was it you wanted to know?” 

Perking up, Zagreus swallows the light, airy flavor and hands the bottle back to Patroclus. “Well, I’ve met many of my relatives by now — or, heard from them, even if they haven’t really heard from me. My family tree sounds…complicated.” 

Patroclus does snort at that before tipping the bottle back. “And?” 

“Well,” Zagreus says, “I’m curious about… _relations_.”

“Familial ones? You just said yours are ‘complicated’, and likely beyond me, anyway. Bonds like yours are none that mortals can comprehend. I suppose that’s one thing I can count myself lucky in.”

“Oh, no. I meant — romance. Sex.” 

For all intents and purposes, it appears as if Patroclus _inhales_ his next sip of nectar, his usually downturned eyes widening and his throat working past his mouthful. Dignified despite that, he turns his face away and hits his fist against his chest, coughing only once before returning his attention to Zagreus. He corks the nectar, sets it down between them, and says, flat, “Leave me.” 

Zagreus holds up his hands placatingly. “Oh...ah, let me explain?” 

Now stormy, Patroclus says nothing. Zagreus hastens: “Us immortals are fickle, very fickle. Difficult. Truly, um, _heedless_ in our pursuits…our partners…when we want to be…” He thinks of Hades, of the lie that was Nyx, of his mother, and her abandonment. “I’m not entirely thoughtless, of course. I care for those important to me, but I think…mortals are different, aren’t they?”

It seems, at first, that Patroclus may have truly decided to ignore Zagreus completely. But then the clouds settle on his face and all Patroclus does, initially, is shake his head. Nothing more.

Zagreus is just about to take his leave after all, supposing that needling Theseus is a better way to pass his time, but then Patroclus says, “If the Fates are in a giving mood.” 

Reclining, Zagreus keeps his legs crossed close to him, both his hands pressing to the perfect grass below as he leans back. “And if they’re not, I’d imagine it’s still very different than what I know.”

Patroclus takes a deep breath. “Gods are indeed fickle, as you said. Mortals, too. That doesn’t change between us. Love makes fools of us all, you see. You could be the most powerful god, and I’d imagine you’d still be brought to your knees by love.”

“Aphrodite…” 

Patroclus waves a hand, the most dynamic that Zagreus has ever seen him. “Dangerous, and mighty. But the love she casts…it is different. It _is_ different.”

“It’s not lust,” Zagreus points out, having experienced the rush of her boons enough to know.

“…It isn’t _whole_ ,” Patroclus says, somehow rueful. “For us mortals, lucky or unlucky, love is complicated. If the Fates deign to give you a lover you desire and are desired by in turn, it is wondrous. Boundless strength can come from such a person. And yet, when you depart from them, or they you…”

There is a heavy pause, and a complex string of emotions shift across Patroclus’ face like Zagreus is seeing him just beneath the surface of water. For a split second, Zagreus pictures the way Achilles has looked when trying to speak of the same matters, of love, of loss. He aches for him suddenly, somehow in both a vicarious and voyeuristic way. 

Patroclus uncorks the nectar bottle and drinks the rest of it in one impressive swooping gulp. Then, placing the bottle heavily onto the ground once more, Patroclus says, “Tell me how the gods yearn.” 

Zagreus thinks of Megaera and he thinks of Thanatos. He wonders about his father and about his mother. Then, he decides though he may not be qualified necessarily to speak of yearning, nor of anything to do with romance considering his disastrous parenthood and catastrophic attempts at relationships, he might as well give it his best shot.

“I can’t speak for the gods,” Zagreus starts. “Only myself, and I’m not…well, anyway. I suppose…it depends on the person. Which sounds like an awful answer, but lately my heart’s been very indecisive. Torn between two opposite people. With one, I may have ruined my chances irreparably at some unspecified point in the past. Back then, it wasn’t so much a matter for the heart at all. Perhaps that was the trouble with it. The other, I’m…trying to do better. I think it might scare him if I was too honest, too quickly.” 

Patroclus, for once, is looking at Zagreus with all the focus that a shade can muster; for a shade like himself, it is quite a lot of focus, indeed. And Zagreus’ heart trembles with it.

“But I’ve never been one for limiting myself in any capacity, as you may be able to tell by my constant stumbling upon this place,” Zagreus finishes. “None of us immortal-types are.”

“Despite all this, you are still unbound?” Patroclus asks. 

“Ah…” Zagreus purses his lips. “It’s complicated.” 

Patroclus’ smile is wry. “Yes. Isn’t it.” 

“And you, with Achilles…?” Zagreus tries.

But Patroclus interrupts: “Not now.” 

There is a lingering pause, only the distant sounds of adrenaline-hungry souls and shades reaching them. Patroclus’ tension remains for a few seconds longer, and then it drains. He says, a quiet prompt, “You are not leashed to another. You are not kept from pursuing your desires.”

Zagreus shakes his head. 

Patroclus gives a little _hmph_ of a noise. He’s still holding onto the neck of the nectar bottle, his thumb sliding up and down, circling the glass. Zagreus finds himself watching a moment too long, but by then, he thinks his attention has been noticed. Might as well, then.

“You thanked me once,” Zagreus says, “for providing you a fleeting feeling.” 

Patroclus hums. His thumb stops.

Zagreus’ gaze flicks up to Patroclus’ face, studying the strange conflict there. “I can promise no binding. No leash. If you want. I know you said you still love him, and if it’s too much—” 

“It isn’t,” Patroclus interrupts again. “It isn’t too much…or maybe it is. It’s been…it’s been so _long_ , and I…” 

His voice trails away, and for the first time their eyes properly meet. Zagreus doesn’t budge.

“He had a hand in training you, didn’t he?” Patroclus says then.

Zagreus smiles. “Greatly.”

“I can tell. Your steps are nearly so smooth. And the way you hold yourself…”

“I care greatly for Achilles,” Zagreus says, sincere. “He’s done more for me than he ever needed to. I appreciate it all.” 

“And have you made this same offer to him? What did he—?” No more than a beat passes, and Patroclus says instantly, “No. Never mind, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” 

“If you tell me no, I’ll think nothing more of it. It’s just an offer, I promise.”

Patroclus gives him an odd look and a frown, and then rubs a hand across his face as if to dispel his own internal war that he’s fighting. Zagreus has certainly gotten used to the pendulum-like silence of this place; one moment, Patroclus will speak a dozen words, and the next, he will quiet himself. 

And after the silence comes Patroclus’ low voice: “Come here, then.” 

Zagreus does. He kneels in Patroclus’ space, reaches out, touches his bare knee with care. It’s such a simple thing, and yet Patroclus goes utterly rigid. _It’s been so long_ , Zagreus heard him say.

“Let me,” Zagreus murmurs, and he leans forward, slides his other hand behind Patroclus’ hair, beneath the heavy cloth of his cloak, to find his nape; he draws him in, and lays the chastest of kisses to his mouth. Patroclus’ beard tickles his skin, his lips cool, and for a moment that’s all there is. 

Achilles must have done this very same thing, a hundred times and more, met Patroclus’ lips with his own, sought kisses and touch. Zagreus is just drawing back, feeling a little as if he might be _truly_ be overstepping, when Patroclus’ firm hand comes up to the back of his head and brings him back again for another kiss, suddenly yielding, suddenly so very _alive_.

It is a much needed reprieve from the constant fight upwards, the way Patroclus’ fingers grip at Zagreus’ clothing to bare his skin, better than the ever-draining battling. Patroclus had called him unbound, and Zagreus wishes that were true. But in this moment, he can at least do something other than taste the blood of the Styx. Now, he tastes only nectar on Patroclus’ tongue, the flavor warm and light, no tint of iron to it.

Zagreus promised Patroclus a fleeting feeling, and so he decides he’ll make good on that, except that Patroclus is overwhelming in all regards; corded muscle flexes as he presses Zagreus down into the sweet grass of Elysium, and Zagreus is willing, parting his legs only to drag Patroclus down, their breaths meeting into kisses, melting into sounds.

Patroclus, despite his obvious shiver with every touch, the way he _wants_ with such raw need that Zagreus almost feels burned by him, is more restrained than Zagreus expected. He’s careful, sliding his palms over Zagreus’ skin, as if taking the measure of him. Zagreus lets his head fall back onto the grass as he undoes Patroclus’ cloak, as he slides his own hands beneath his clothing to take him in his grip.

A jerk of hips gives Patroclus away. Zagreus kisses his neck, Patroclus’ hair falling over him to shield Zagreus’ own face. Patroclus’ breath shudders at Zagreus’ ear, unsteady; his hands grip Zagreus underneath him like a lifeline, an anchor. Zagreus wraps his arm around the back of his neck to keep him close, rubbing his cheek against Patroclus’ beard as he mouths at the line of muscle down to his shoulder. His hand still works at him, thumbing the wetness across him, using it —

Did Achilles touch him like this? Zagreus wonders. How would he have done it? Would they have sparred, and with skin still sticky with sweat, fallen into sheets with one another, or just onto the dusty ground, lungs too spent for even laughter? Achilles, Zagreus thinks, would have kissed him with less gentleness. It would have been impassioned. Tender isn’t the right word for what they’re doing, _careful_ , maybe. Achilles wouldn’t have been careful with him. Love doesn’t make anyone careful.

Mortals are so fragile, their hearts just like their bodies. And Zagreus understands, or at least he thinks he can comprehend it, in part. To see a shattered shade of a man and want to hold the broken pieces of him together, just for a moment; is that not like a mortal’s compassion? To be the closest person to who this man coming apart above him desires most, is that not more than chance?

Zagreus strokes, tighter, a little faster, feeling the telltale pulse in his fist, and at his ear Patroclus whispers, breathless and wistful, “ _Achilles_.” 

Zagreus makes a thin noise of surprise but Patroclus is trembling over him, his hips moving a final few times, wet spilling over the fingers still around him, and before Zagreus can so much as groan, his own arousal flaring, Patroclus kisses him heavily, heartily. Zagreus melts, puddled out under Patroclus with his own clothing spread wide, and imagines: yes, this is how Patroclus would kiss Achilles in turn.

He takes himself in the same hand afterwards, still wet with Patroclus’ pleasure, only for Patroclus to knock his hand away with a swift shake of his head. Zagreus arches into his grip, a gasp muffled against Patroclus’ cheek, and this is again, sharing, the same way they’d shared the nectar. Warmth builds under Zagreus’ skin, a buzz of want, bliss bubbling over, and Patroclus bears down over him until Zagreus can only breathe out one last hiss of warning, shuddering with his climax.

Zagreus remains breathless afterwards, eventually offering a torn strip of cloth from his own top for Patroclus to wipe his hand clean. He leaves himself splayed out on the ground for a little longer, getting his bearings, before he begins righting his own clothes. Patroclus is quiet, and Zagreus glances at him, and though he’s not self-conscious in the least, he _is_ feeling what he thinks is an appropriate amount of concern.

With care, Zagreus takes the fallen cloak from the ground, the material weighty and rich, and then hefts it around Patroclus’ shoulders once more. The clasp is unlike Achilles’, bearing the emblem of the House of Hades. But the cloak is the same, two of a kind, and Zagreus slides his fingers across the cloth to smooth it out before he releases the silent man.

They gaze at each other for a moment, Elysium hardly stirring around them.

“If you want to see him,” Zagreus says finally, his voice soft. “I can try to arrange it.” 

Patroclus seems struck by the idea, then sorrowful. “Yes,” he says, almost gentle. “I would like that. I would like to see him.”

As Zagreus takes his leave, he sees Patroclus swirling the empty nectar bottle, around and around, with nary a drop remaining inside.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Patroclus:** Just the relief from misery that I was looking for. A fleeting feeling, really, but I'll take a fleeting feeling over none.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
